


Death--Take a Holiday

by RileyC



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angst, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the worst days of Jim Gordon's life might turn out to also be one of the best...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death--Take a Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ ComicDrabbles challenge #26: Dark Alleys

The only warning is a crunch of gravel. It’s not enough. Even as Jim turns toward it, a gun’s muzzle flash lights up the rain-dark alley—once, twice, three times, but the third shot goes wide and the bullet embeds itself in brick, sending up a shower of clay and mortar. The other two shots strike true and anger blends with pain and fear as Jim feels the bullets rip into his chest and shoulder. _Of all the goddamn times not to wear a vest…_ Excuses don’t matter—that he was off duty, that he’d stepped out here to meet someone—because he’s still face down in a filthy alley, bleeding out his life on the cracked and broken pavement.

 

Instinct makes him drag himself along that pavement. There’s nowhere to hide, though, and the smear of blood he’s leaving will lead his assassin straight to him anyway. He hears the footsteps now, braces himself for the killing shot, straight to the back of his head.

 

It doesn’t come. Instead, he hears the unmistakable sound of fists and feet colliding with flesh; grunts of pain and sharp exhalations as a kick to the solar plexus knocks the breath right out of the assassin. Jim doesn’t see any of it. Or, he’s seen enough in the past to choreograph every move from memory.

 

There is utter, unnerving silence in the aftermath, and then hands are on him, gentle but efficient as they turn him and check for a pulse, for the severity of his wounds. He’s lost his glasses somewhere and can only see a dark blur as he blinks open his eyes. It’s enough.

 

“Ba--”

 

“Don’t talk.” Low, raspy, a voice that scares confessions out of criminals, but in that moment Jim thinks he has never heard a sound more soothing. He’s not alone. He’s cold and _oh god it hurts…_ but he won’t be alone.

 

He lets his eyes drift shut. Listens from a fuzzy distance as an ambulance is called for, wonders if it can get there in time. His lack of urgency should be of concern but it’s not so bad now and he drifts off for a little while. That voice, rough with pain now, urges him to stay—“Jim? Jim…don’t go. Please, just…don’t go…”

 

“…try…” Jim whispers, barely that, and wishes he could promise more. Wishes he could tell him a lot of things. _Don’t blame yourself; not your fault. I don’t regret a minute._ Maybe he communicates it in the way he squeezes the hand that grasps his own, though. He hopes so.

 

He rests there, his head cradled against an armored thigh, gloved fingers stroking his hair, and listens to the rain patter down, listens to the shriek of sirens as they converge on this alley, and thinks maybe they will be in time. He hopes so. All of a sudden he has this idea that there’s a hell of a lot to live for.


End file.
